At last, as the clock chimed six, the entire student body assembled at the great oak doors. Torches blazed along the walls, throwing warm light over eager faces. Professors stood at the front, stern but expectant.
The chill of evening crept through the open doors. Outside, the sky was streaked with violet and gold as the last of the sun sank behind the mountains. A hush swept over the students, broken only by the rustling of cloaks and the sharp intake of breath as they strained their eyes toward the darkening grounds.
A low rumble grew in the distance, like thunder rolling in from the horizon. Then, from above the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, a vast shadow emerged, growing larger with every heartbeat.
Gasps rose all around as an enormous, powder-blue carriage burst through the clouds, glittering in the sunset. It was the size of a small house, its windows gleaming with gold trim, drawn through the sky by twelve immense winged horses. Their coats were milk-white, their manes like spun silver, and each great hoof struck sparks as they descended. The beating of their wings sent a gale across the grounds, whipping cloaks and hair into chaos.
With a shuddering crash of hooves, the Abraxans landed just beyond the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the ground trembling under their weight. Their wings folded neatly, glittering faintly in the fading light, as the colossal carriage sank down onto the lawns with surprising elegance.
"Abraxans!" Hagrid bellowed delightedly, as though Christmas had arrived early. His wild hair flew about his face as he lumbered across the grass, arms stretched wide as if to greet each horse personally. "Look at the size of 'em—beauties, every one! Need a bucket o' brandy each to keep 'em happy, they do!"
The vast creatures tossed their manes and stamped, snorting plumes of mist into the cold evening air. Hagrid reached up to pat the nearest one, though even on tiptoe his enormous hand barely brushed its shoulder. His eyes shone with boyish excitement as he fussed around the team, muttering admiringly about muscle, bone, and wingspan, as though he'd discovered a stable of legends instead of visitors' transport.
The students, huddled on the steps, could only stare. The grandeur of the carriage and the sheer power of the horses left even the boldest of them struck dumb, their whispers dying in their throats. Hogwarts had never seen an arrival like this
"Merlin's beard," Ron Weasley breathed, his eyes bulging. "Those horses are—are enormous!"
"Abraxans," Hermione said at once, her voice pitched with excitement. "Gigantic winged palominos—very rare. They drink nothing but single-malt whiskey—"
The great double doors of the carriage creaked open, and the first to emerge was a woman of truly colossal height, wrapped in shimmering black satin. Madame Maxime glided down the steps with regal poise, her jeweled hand resting lightly on the carriage rail. She came to stand before Dumbledore, who bowed low with twinkling eyes.
"Albus," she said in her deep, husky voice, her accent rolling richly through the night air. "I trust you 'ave found suitable stables for my Abraxans?"
"But of course," said Dumbledore warmly. "Our gamekeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, has kindly agreed to attend to them."
Hagrid swelled so visibly with pride that his beard seemed to puff outward. "I'll see to 'em meself, Madame Maxime," he said eagerly, patting the nearest horse's neck—though even on tiptoe, he barely reached its shoulder. The Abraxan gave a loud snort that ruffled his hair like a gale. "Brandy every night, jus' as you said."
Madame Maxime inclined her head graciously before sweeping her gaze over the awestruck students. Behind her, more figures were beginning to descend from the carriage, their footsteps light and graceful against the grass.
One by one, the students of Beauxbâtons began to descend the carriage steps, their silk shoes gliding soundlessly over the grass. A collective murmur rose from the Hogwarts crowd. The Beauxbâtons girls were tall, graceful, and draped in robes of pale blue that shimmered like frost in the lamplight. Even the few boys among them seemed impossibly elegant, their posture so straight they looked as though they had stepped from a portrait.
"Bloody hell," someone muttered from the Gryffindor ranks. "They look like they've walked straight out of a fairy tale."
Several Ravenclaws craned forward, whispering in awe about enchantments in their clothes, while a Hufflepuff could be heard sighing loudly, "They're like angels!"
And then—Fleur.
The torches flared against her silvery-blonde hair, which rippled like molten light down her back. Her face was calm, serene, yet lit with an otherworldly glow that made the night itself seem to draw in closer. As she moved, her every step appeared choreographed, as though the very air knew to get out of her way.